Dirty Little Secrets (4 page)

He shook his head. “Not a problem. But why do you do it?”

“My job? Why do I do my job?” Her throat was suddenly dry. The question was possibly her least favourite. There was no answer that could possibly sum up her feelings adequately, or at least not one she would share with someone.

“Yeah. I reckon you could make a lot of money in private practice. My lawyer just bought a Ferrari. Come to think about it, I think he’s overcharging me.”

“Probably. Never trust lawyers. They’re a slimy lot.” She smiled.

“And apparently they’re good at avoiding questions. You didn’t give me an answer.” His face rose again in a half smile.

She shifted from one foot to the other but forced herself to look him directly in the eye. “I told you. I like putting bad guys away.”

“But why those bad guys?” he asked.

There was something about his tone that made her consider letting down her guard. Or maybe it was the gold flecks in his eyes, or the adrenaline, or the fact he had allowed himself to be physically assaulted for her, but she would never really let her public mask slip, especially not with a reporter. She never stopped being a DA, and she knew sure as shit nothing would ever be off the record with James if she told him things beyond her official bio. She and Ben had worked too long and too hard to let anything jeopardise them now. “Because I am good at it. I don’t have the highest conviction rate in the District by accident.”

She turned the question on him. “Why are you still in journalism? When your father was indicted, why didn’t you cash in and move to the Caribbean and sit on the beach and drink cocktails until you meet your maker?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not really a sitting on the beach type of guy.”

The DA in her pounced. She never let an untruth go without a challenge. “So that wasn’t you I saw in St. Bart’s with a girl off that soap opera? And it wasn’t you in Maui with the lingerie model? Perhaps it was your twin in Nice with that heiress?”

“Christ, you read a lot of tabloids.” James lay back on the hospital bed.

He looked too big for the bed, his legs too long, his shoulders too broad. He looked like a man in a child’s bed. Physically he was very daunting. If he wanted to hurt her, he could, quite easily. The thought unsettled her almost as much as the realisation that she assessed everyone on their potential to inflict pain. Old habits die hard.

“I don’t read any tabloids actually, but thank you for making my point for me. So-called legitimate news organisations report on where you are and who you are sleeping with.”

“Only because you read it, sweetheart.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Woman, you just named three chicks I shagged this year. I would say you’ve taken an interest.” He grinned. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled properly.

Her stomach did a flip. Jesus, she needed to get it together. He was flirting with her and she liked it. Lack of sex did strange things to a woman’s brain. “Hardly. I was trying to make a point and you put me off. So congratulations on that, because that is hard to do.”

She turned to look down the hall and see if a doctor was coming to tend to him. The examination room suddenly seemed hot. She hoped he could not see the blush she felt creeping across her cheeks. She didn’t blush. Self-imposed abstinence was turning her into a schoolgirl. She was going to add sex to her to do list, or even just buy new batteries, that might take the edge off. All the thinking about sex reminded her of the point she had been trying to make. “Oh, now I remember: real news outlets should not be reporting on who you or anyone else is having sex with. If no one is getting hurt, it is nobody’s business.”

“We print what people buy. Supply and demand. If you don’t want to read it, stop buying it. The almighty dollar speaks loudly, sweetheart.” He closed his eyes and sank his dark head deeper into the pillow. His body language was so relaxed and indifferent, it would have infuriated her had it not aroused her. He was so masculine and in charge of his surroundings, even now with a broken hand and split eyebrow. Something primitive in her responded to him, it was part of herself she had not seen in a very long time.

She let out a long breath. “If that is your justification, we can hardly have a productive conversation.” There was no point arguing, he was not going to be swayed and there was no jury to convince.

He opened one eye. “Keep fighting, counsellor, this is the most animated I’ve seen you all night. I like seeing the ice queen melt a bit. Not too much though, I like your rough edges.”

Her back stiffened at the ice queen reference. She knew people called her that, hell, she prided herself on it, but she wasn’t entirely comfortable with James Emerson knowing about her reputation in the courtroom. “I don’t engage in arguments I can’t win,” she lied. She lived for a good argument. “If you think money trumps ethics, there is no changing your mind.”

“I also think democracy could not function without a free press. But the money is good too. Either of those things would get me up in the morning. How lucky am I that I have both?”

“I think that is as close to an admission as I am going to get that your profession is, for the most part, completely mercenary.”

He lifted his head and smiled. “Are we making admissions now? I like this game. Now your turn. Admit that it turns you on to read about people fucking on the beach, doesn’t it? If one of my newspapers made you come that bit harder when you were underneath your husband, I have done you a service. You’re welcome.” He closed his eyes again as he lay back.

Her breath caught in her throat. No one spoke to her like that. Her mouth was dry but between her thighs there was a wetness she had not felt in a long time. Every beat of her heart pushed blood lower into her body, heightening her awareness of his proximity. She pretended to cough to give her an excuse to move away.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked. “I usually cringe when I see a story about my sex life. But now I’ll smile just a little, knowing I helped get you off.”

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing coherent sprang to mind. For God’s sake she argued for a living. She should be able to shut him down with a few words, but every single one in her lexicon failed her.

“I kind of like you quiet. Who knew all it would take is a little talk about my sex life? Christ, I haven’t even given you details. I’ll save those for when I really want to shut you up.”

She cleared her throat, her pride allowing her to rise to the challenge. “If you want me to shut up, you could always just ask me.”

“Really? You don’t seem the type to take orders. Is that another confession? The ice queen secretly likes being ordered about? Too bad this is all off the record, because that front page would sell out.”

“Why are we talking about your sex life?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. Why are we? You brought it up. Shall we talk about yours? When was the last time the senator rode you hard? Really had you panting, just begging him to fuck you? I’m guessing it’s been a while. I can see the way your eyes are dilated. You’re turned on. If you’d been fucked lately you would tell me to shove it up my ass.”

She willed her body to relax, but each word he spoke turned her on more, winding her up tighter. “I wasn’t aware you were an expert in body language and a journalist. You’re obviously a man of many talents. And by the way, I would not just tell you to shove it up your ass. I would do it for you.”

“Feisty. But before I indulge you any further in your fantasy, I should tell you I’m not really into having things shoved in my ass or shoving what I got in anyone else’s. No judgement, just not my thing. Why use an ass when the good Lord created something perfect for the job?” He crossed himself and then kissed his thumb and index finger.

Her heart beat harder against her ribs. He looked simultaneously angelic and deviant, saint and sinner all wrapped into one beautiful package. Screw the batteries, she was going to need something rechargeable.

They were both temporarily distracted by a knock at the door. Moments later a teenager in scrubs walked in. He flipped through the chart looking for something, because apparently the blood covering James’ face did not illustrate the problem well enough, he needed to read about it first.

“Hello. Mr. …Emerson?”

James nodded.

“I’m going to stitch you up before you are sent down for x-rays. And probably a cast. Yep, that is going to need a cast.” The doctor eyed James’ hand suspiciously but he made no attempt to examine it.

Megan itched to ask if this was his first day. He didn’t look old enough to be a doctor; he didn’t even look like he was shaving yet.

“Great. And the night was just getting fun. It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. McCoy. It is my sincerest hope we can do this again soon.”

“Likewise.” Megan smiled even though she was put out that Doogie Howser had interrupted her verbal sparring session. She had not felt so alive in ages. She wasn’t likely to see James again, which was probably for the best because she had gone too long without sex to withstand a full charm offensive. “I will tell Lynette to expect your call.”

James’ eyes narrowed in question.

“To schedule an interview with Ben,” she reminded him.

“Christ, I nearly forgot you are married,” he said. His voice was like liquid chocolate, hot and sweet.

He hadn’t forgotten. But she had.

And that was a problem. If there was anyone one who she needed to remember her role in front of, it would be the owner of Global Media Network.

Megan turned and left without looking back.

Chapter Three

Megan looked at the clock on her phone. It was nearly midnight. She should be tired, but she was just hungry. She had had a bag of Fritos and a Snickers bar out of the vending machine, as well as some tar-like substance they were trying to pass off as coffee.

She should have gone home. But she didn’t. Instead she phoned Ben and explained the situation and told him she would be staying to drive James home and then get a cab back to her house.

She had made it as far as the parking garage before she realised James would not be able to drive home with a cast, so she turned around and went back to the ER waiting room. She kept her head down most of the night. The last thing she needed was to be recognised by a former defendant or complaining witness, and the Emergency Room was the most likely place she would see either.

“Mrs. McCoy, Mr. Emerson is being discharged if you want to go back now,” the nurse on the front desk informed her. Three times the nurse had asked Megan if she wanted to go back to the examination room with James. And three times Megan had declined. She suspected the nurse kept offering to see if Megan would provide an excuse. But she didn’t because she didn’t have to.

When she pulled back the curtain, Megan found James fumbling with his phone. He was trying unsuccessfully to balance his mobile on his leg while he dialled with his right hand. When he lifted his head, a look of confusion flashed in his moss-coloured eyes.

“I thought you might need a ride,” she explained.

“Have you been here the whole time?”

She nodded.

“Thanks. I could use a lift. I can’t even manage to dial a cab so chances are I’m not safe to drive a motor vehicle. This is surprisingly heavy.” He pointed at his arm.

“I thought you just broke your hand.” The cast extended nearly to his wrist.

“I did. All this for a broken metacarpal. The child prodigy, I mean my doctor, said it is called a Boxer’s Fracture. Apparently I should have wrapped my hand before I punched that asshole. Seriously, that was his advice.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m just glad boy wonder was able to get it back in place. Otherwise I would have needed surgery. And I think it was past his bed time.”

“I am sorry about tonight,” she said again.

“Stop apologising. You didn’t break my hand.”

“I know. But I sort of dragged you into something. And I was a bitch.”

“I never get dragged where I don’t want to be. And nothing wrong with being a bitch. Sometimes that’s just the way it has to be.” James rose from the bed and grabbed his suit jacket on the back of the chair.

“Yeah well, I’m still sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Thanks for waiting.”

“Well, it was kind of the least I could do after what you did for me.” She paused before adding, “It was really…um…great of you…and I appreciate it.” She clamped her mouth shut before she could say anything else. She was not used to expressing gratitude towards anyone but Ben. With her husband it was easy, nothing said thank you more than the latest issue of
Fist
‘accidently’ left under a pillow. But James did not seem the type to appreciate gay porn.

“Any man would have done the same. You don’t hit women. And if you do, there is going to be a bigger man to beat on you.”

Megan could not think what to say, which was unusual for her, to say the least. The issue was too close to her, the incident too fresh. She knew from experience that there were far too many men ready to hit a woman and very few who would step in and stop it. They might think they would, but when it came down to it, most men—no most people—chose to ignore things that made them uncomfortable.

“So where do you live?”

“In Georgetown, not too far from you actually.”

James had not been kidding, he lived just over a mile from her in an impressive redbrick colonial.

“Come in for a drink,” he said as she pulled into the drive. The lights from the patio came on from a sensor, illuminating the path to the front porch.

“I should get home.”

“You need to call a cab anyway,” he said. “Unless you feel more comfortable waiting here in the car. I get that. I’ll call a cab. Just put the keys through the letterbox when you go. Nice meeting you, Megan McCoy.”

He offered her his hand to shake. She stared at it, momentarily forgetting social etiquette. He thought she was scared of him. She stopped being scared of men years ago. She was wary, she was safe, she was pragmatic, but she was not scared. Intentional or not, his words were an explicit challenge to her. “I would love a drink.”